In which we tie up some old reminiscences (New Mexico part III).

Oh dear, look what half-finished post I just found. From the Pre-Trump American Archives of Summer 2016:

Our next adventure took us west, out into the rugged desert to the Acoma Pueblo. I'd been there several times before and I'm sure it won't be the last time.

There were some pretty wet-looking clouds moving our way as we neared the end of the tour. Someone asked our guide if it was going to rain, which was quickly answered with "No, it never rains. I promise." To that, the sky replied, "Wanna bet?" and the clouds opened as we made our way down the steep mesa decline. We stopped for shelter from the downpour partway down the trail, huddling under an overhanging boulder while rain water trickled down the ancient steps and filled the hand-carved hand-holds in the rock wall. The water streaked down the cliff face, highlighting colors that are otherwise subdued in the stone. When it became clear that the trickle down the trail was becoming stronger as opposed to stopping, we carefully packed away electronics and followed the water's path.

A short time later, we got back to the visitors' center and lunched outside, though protected from the weather, and listened to the thunder crash and rumble. It made it's point, and then it left. As did we.

But before heading home, we took a detour farther west, to the Malpais, or badlands. There we stopped at the sandstone bluffs overlooking miles and miles of lava fields, and hopped around barefoot on the warm cliffs.

Later that evening: Old Town, New Mexican cuisine, quiet streets.

The next day took us north to Taos, in what I like to think of as the Toes of the Rockies, where a dear friend welcomed us into her adobe abode, treating us to the nigh-on spiritual experience that is her cooking and the warming comforts of her laughter and home. 

One deep sleep later, after PJ'd berry pickings and a divine breakfast, we packed a picnic and headed up to the local ski valley for some high-altitude hiking. Buzzing, babbling brooks, hidden meadows, soft sunshine dappling through greenly needled branches.

A return trip through an artsy mecca with holy hollyhocks and damn good ice cream, and it was time to say goodbye. First farewell to our wonderful host and fabulous hoohah of a cherished friend, and then farewell to my travel companion from Hamburg, who I deposited in a parking lot on the north end of town to start his next adventure -- hitchhiking north and east, destination Minneapolis, and Toronto. (Spoiler: He survived. We cooked dinner together last week, then drank champagne and ate truffles while watching a movie in 3D, classy glasses over our glasses). I drove the 150 or so miles back to Albuquerque, on my own for the first time in weeks, scanning through fuzzy radio stations and trying to watch the road instead of the dramatic cloudscapes.

I had big plans for my final day in New Mexico, all of which were thwarted when I walked out to the car in the morning and realized I'd be changing a tire and hanging out at the mechanic's instead. After weeks of careful sunscreen slathering, the sun finally snuck its way into my skin as I put on the spare -- "Something to remember me by when you go back to Hamburg", it smirked.

The next day, Mom and I flew together to Boston, my point of departure and her point of conference for the next week. There we were met at the airport by Joshua (with whom I recently celebrated our 1-year Portugaliversary), who was a total peach to drive down from Maine just for the evening. Together we made our way to Cambridge, where we met up with family and picnicked in a park. My niece shrieked in bottomless, year-and-a-half-old delight as she streaked through the fountain, then insisted that I take my shoes off so that she could toddle around in them. A perfect evening to conclude several wonderful, family-filled weeks in the Heimat.  

In which there is an absence of turns (New Mexico part II).

Earlier this year, my parents bought some land a good 150+ miles southwest of Albuquerque and built a yurt there to use as a weekend and all-purpose retreat/getaway from the city. It sits on the edge of the Cibola National Forest, in a remote area with no streetlights and few neighbors. Getting there involves driving for a couple hours straight south and then straight west, with emphasis on the straight -- at one point while crossing a very long stretch of plains, my friend called out something like "Look, a curve!" when approaching a less-straight length of road, and we all laughed. 

The decision to make an investment in this land partly came from my mother's yearly retreats in a remote canyon, the dramatic beauty of which I got to experience first-hand a couple years ago. Having a cozy, quiet space in a secluded place that was also within driving distance from home has turned into a real treasure for both of my parents and I was eager to see it for myself after months of stories and spotty facetime videos. So, Mom, my friend and I took the first chance we had to drive out in July and spent a few days exploring the land and being quiet. Said friend opted to spend a couple days on his own, and made the airstream trailer on the land his home base while Mom and I cozied up in the yurt.

On the long drive out into the wild west of New Mexico, the clouds were as diverse and exciting as the ever-changing desert mountains, and we drove under some very dark and heavy layers of sky before arriving at our destination. 

The view from the yurt and surrounding terrace is impressive to say the least, with the entire expanse of the San Agustin Plains through which we had just driven, and the mountains beyond. The storm system that had accompanied our route had finally sprung a leak, but far off in the distance. We didn't see any rain until the next afternoon. In the meantime, we got settled in before losing daylight, cooked up something tasty on the gas cooker, and watched darkness settle on the Crosby Mountains and valley below. I was hoping for a star show, but the clouds seemed quite comfortable where they were and didn't budge for a while. Later, I checked back outside and found myself confronted by the entirety of the universe. Never had I seen such a sky. Brain floored, I fetched a blanket and sat on the terrace for a long time, trying to look everywhere at once and hardly able to take in what I was seeing. Pure, astronomical magnificence.

That turned out to be the only chance for star-gazing, as the next two nights were overcast. Thanks for that, universe.

The next day began quietly, with soft pastels across the plains. Mom and I sat wrapped in blankets again outside, sharing slippers and sipping abuelita hot cocoa while the sun slowly stretched its beams in the east. Then, a long walk, and breakfast. 

 

 

 

 

The yurt itself is quite splendid, and was assembled with the help of many neighbors in the surrounding area -- an old-fashioned barn raising. It is insulated against heat and cold, and protected from weather, wind, and lightning. Windows on all sides and in the dome in the roof let in light and view, but can also be blocked to keep heat in or out. There is no electricity, but a gas-powered fridge lets you live with the luxuries of fresh vegetables and milk, and the grill and gas cooker open up a world of possibilities in culinary camping. Solar-powered chargers keep you plugged into the world if so desired, and candles and solar-powered lanterns (not to mention old-fashioned flashlights) let you see in the dark. Dad had recently installed a woodstove, for later seasons. And there's a very comfortable outhouse not far away to help with any other needs you might have.

 

Later, we were out exploring amidst the alligator junipers when we both froze, sensing a very large, hoofed presence nearby. The large hoofed thing was soon out of earshot, and while trying to figure out which way it might have gone, our attention was drawn to a much smaller presence that was letting out soft squeaks from some nearby shrubs. We very slowly approached it, trying to figure out what it was, and finally found a tiny fawn, very wobbly on its thin legs, nosing about clumsily for something to nibble on, seemingly confused as to where it needed to go. There was no sign of a mama deer, or any other deer, except for the sound we'd heard earlier. We kept our distance for a while and just watched it, unsure of what to do. I was afraid of getting too close and our smell getting on it, which might cause the mother to reject it if she came back later. The little thing was so sweet and so weak and pathetic -- it was having trouble walking and we couldn't tell whether its legs were injured or if it was just rusty on them. It also didn't show any fear and came hobbling over to us, though I made sure not to touch it. Mom went to go ask the more wildlife-experienced neighbors about what to do while I kept my eye on it. Eventually it lay down and, consensus being that we should leave it and hope the mother would come back, we went home. Mom went back to check a couple hours later and it was still lying there, no madre. It probably didn't survive the night, weak and exposed as it was. But what could we do? Wish it well, and trust that nature's got this whole thing figured out, though it certainly melancholied an otherwise peaceful evening.

 

Mom and I went on another adventure the next day, wandering down an acequia in the national forest. Everywhere there were signs that water had been there, possibly from the heavy rain we'd had the day before, though the ground was again bone dry.

It stormed again that afternoon, so we holed up in the yurt, drinking tea, reading, listening to the rain and thunder, playing Rummikub.
I. Love. Rummikub.

The clouds were already active on our last morning, and after a short walk, we packed up, tightened the yurt against the wind, and headed back over and up the miles and miles and miles of straight roads towards Albuquerque. 

 

A quick stop at the local gas station was a cultural experience. One side of the sign read "ANYONE BUT HILLARY". The other: "ANYONE BUT BERNIE". That didn't stop us from buying Klondike bars, though. I hope they're happy with how that mess turned out.

Another detour we took was to the Very Large Array, because, why not? Space is cool, but it was very, very hot outside the visitors' center and we didn't stay too long.

A couple other stops were made, solely for landscape-oggling purposes. 

After several hours of driving, we finally arrived back in the world of wifi and traffic lights (for better or worse), the next adventure already in the works.